I can’t believe it’s been one year since my mom spoke her last words. It was August 15, and she hadn’t been out of bed in two days. We decided it was time for the girls to come say goodbye. Francesca approached her bedside and said, “Hi grandma, it’s me Francesca…I love you.” And ever so quietly and weakly, without opening her eyes she said, “I know.” We didn’t know it at the time, but those would be the last words she would say.
Looking back on all the choices I was faced with - from her diagnosis to the memorial service, I’m proud of the decisions. But in the moment, I wasn’t always sure.
From the day she called Dawn and I over to share the news, the
day my life flipped upside down, I had a million questions about how to handle things
with the kids. What do we tell them? How much? The truth, of course…but not the
whole truth. Right? And as I’m grappling with how to not completely screw up my
kids in all this, I’m also simultaneously wondering how in the hell I was going
to put one foot in front of the other and stop crying long enough to speak a complete
sentence let alone proceed with life as usual. But somehow, I did.
Grieving the “Before” Person
But there are some things no one prepares you for…I’m not
sure they can even if they wanted to. For me it was grieving the loss of the healthy
loved one.
When my mom died, two years after her diagnosis, about one
month after she started hospice care and one week after she stopped getting out
of bed and communicating – I felt an extreme emptiness but also a sense of relief.
Which means I also felt guilt. But back to the relief. Sure, it had been a lot,
and I missed being home and my kids. But the relief was mostly because I knew
she didn’t want to live this way. She had been sick for so long, she had fought
for two years. She was in pain. So, when she died, I felt a sense of relief.
But as the days passed, after the memorial service was over and I returned home
it hit me like a ton of bricks. I was never going to talk to my mom again.
Sure, I knew my sick mom was gone. But what about my healthy mom? The one from
two years ago who I called on the way home for the girls’ doctors’
appointments, who I called with ridiculous “is this meat still good” questions.
Whose house I stopped by multiple times with the mail or just to say hi. The
one who didn’t miss a milestone or celebration for my girls. The one who still
told me to text her when I got home from a road trip and who asked me to send
her pictures of wherever we were going. When would I talk to her again? Oh,
wait. It sounds insane. I get it. And before living it, I would have never even
thought about it, but it was a tough reality. I had grieved my sick mom but now
I had to grieve the realization that I would never talk to the healthy one again
either. There were no more memories to make. Both versions were gone.
I also wasn’t prepared for the phone calls I would have to make.
To the dentist office to let them know she wouldn’t be bringing my dad in for
his appointment. The heart doctor to let them know she wouldn’t be rescheduling
her missed appointment. The woman at Office on Aging to let them know she
wouldn’t be needing their services anymore. Each time the words caught in my throat
and you could hear the obvious regret on the other end of the line. No one
prepares you for that job.
Navigating Grief with Kids
Recently, I read a quote that said, “Being a good mom, while
her world fell apart, was the hardest role she’s ever had to play.” And that
really resonated with me.
When my mom got diagnosed and before my kids knew the
gravity of the situation, I struggled hard with how I would ever get it
together enough to go on without completely falling apart every minute of the
day. And what exactly would I tell the girls. At four and eight years old, I
was not about to go into details about her diagnosis and prognosis, but my kids
aren’t dumb. They might not have understood exactly what was happening, but
they knew it was serious. I was sad. I cried a lot. My anxiety was out of
control. And I was gone a lot to take her to chemo appointments or stay with my
dad during her hospital stays or long chemo days.
And of course, they see their grandma weekly, they were
going to know she was sick. So, we kept it high level, “Grandma is sick. She
can’t have surgery to fix it and there isn’t a cure, but mom and aunt Dawn will
take her to a lot of doctor’s appointments to get medicine that will hopefully
make her feel better so she can spend more time with her family. Oh, and she’ll probably lose her hair.”
The New Normal
And so, a new version of life began. It’s wild how an illness or diagnosis - even a
death sentence - quickly becomes your normal. And the same for my kids. Seeing
grandma without hair, using a walker and eventually with oxygen and on the
couch constantly covered in a blanket – was normal. As medicines failed and
wreaked havoc on her body, I started wondering if every goodbye would be the
last. And she felt it too. At some point the goodbye hugs lasted a little
longer, more intentional, and as they walked away I’d watch her eyes filling
with tears – fully aware she didn’t know when it would be her last, but she
could feel it getting closer. We all could.
As the disease progressed and my children lived it, it
became easier to talk more freely in front of them and not hide the gravity of
the situation. I’m sure they heard a lot of things their little minds and
hearts weren’t ready for – but they handled it as well as expected. One of the
most memorable stories during this time was when I told the girls that grandma
was on hospice, which meant she would be going to heaven soon. I told them,
“Grandma is going to stop eating, and just pretty much spend her days in bed.
At some point she is going to go to sleep and not wake up. And that’s okay. (Cue the tears.) We are all going to be sad
and miss her very much but there will be so many people in heaven excited to
see her.” And I watched the wheels turning as Annabelle looked up and said,
“And she’s never been there, right? So, she’ll have a lot of exploring to do.”
And that’s how we would refer to it, even on the day she died, “Grandma is
exploring heaven.”
During the journey I constantly grappled with how much to
include the girls and when, but I always opted to include them and I’m so
thankful I did. I wanted them to experience every stage so when they didn’t see
her again, they would understand.
Saying Goodbye
The last time they saw her awake and talking was a Sunday.
She was slowing down but still eating and getting out of bed. My aunt and
cousins had come to visit that day. We ate dinner and she hugged and kissed
them all goodbye. By Tuesday she was no longer getting out of bed and on Thursday
Chris brought the girls back over to say goodbye.
Her hospice bed was in the living room – right by her
windows where she requested it. When the girls came over that day, I wasn’t
sure how it would go or what their reaction would be. We told them they could
head to the lower level or over to talk to her, if they wanted. They all went
to her bedside. That was the day she said her last words to Francesca, and she
slept peacefully. And while I was worried about them seeing her like that,
Francesca crawled into bed next to her and snuggled her. She rubbed her head
like she had seen me do in the weeks and months before as her hair grew back
after the chemo treatments. At some point, Amelia crawled in too. Annabelle opted
to stay at the bedside and did a lot of cuddling with her big cousins. I’m so
glad we gave them all the choice. To think I was not going to have them come
over and see her for fear it would be too hard for them. I’m so glad we gave
them that opportunity.
They asked about coming back a couple days later but my mom
was very uneasy at that point and I didn’t think it would be helpful for them
to see her like that. As part of her pre-purchased funeral package (talk about
depressing, but helpful), we had an immediate family viewing available. Again, I
debated. Did we really need to do that? My nieces didn’t and Dawn and I felt
okay without it, but then I thought about my girls. They had seen her during
every stage of the process, and it felt like seeing her at the funeral home
might help connect the dots from seeing her sitting in a chair, to sleeping in
a bed to seeing and understanding she was no longer in her body. As I type it,
it feels excessive…but I do think it was an important experience that would
help their little minds understand. So, we did the private family viewing.
Their final goodbye. And as I led sobbing children out to the car I wondered if
I had made a mistake. How could whatever I just put them through that caused
them to sob to the point of near hyperventilation be the right thing?! And yet.
It was. Maybe not that night. Maybe not even in the next few weeks. But today? Almost
a year later? Absolutely. I know 10 years from now, even the worst memories
will fade, but I won’t be able to go back for a “I wish I would have” or “We
should have.”
The Blue Elephant Project
Grief a year later
It has been a wild year. Grief has shown up in a lot of different ways for me this past year. Thankfully the initial
And looking back through my photos, I can point to a few
things that helped me through. My photos are a mix of photos of my mom with
oxygen and varying states of illness (but I hardly found any photos of her in
the couple years leading up to her diagnosis, so this is your PSA to take the pictures
before you’re counting down the days and adding oxygen tanks and wigs and hospital
beds – but take them then too!) I also have a lot of encouragement in the way
of bible verses and quotes and lots of silly things that made me smile and also
shake my head…my sense of humor sometimes, yikes! But they all played a part in
getting me through the last few years. I also came across some photos I haven’t
shared that I think I’m ready to. Like our amazing hospice nurse who always
kept my mom clean and lotioned up and even encouraged us to give her some sips
of her favorite Daily’s Pina Colada drink when we were trying to figure out
what she could have possibly been holding on for. I’m also sharing some really
raw photos of the girls with my mom on that last day she spoke. And pictures of
sweet and heartbreaking notes I’ve found and above all, us showing up for each
other. Amelia breaking down and Dawn and Harper comforting her right before we
left Cedarville while she sobbed “I just miss grandma” was something I will
never forget. She is my big feelings girl and in that moment, she was feeling
it, was sharing it and her people showed up to get her through it.
Amidst the sadness.
And the grief. And the tears. We are so, so lucky. Because we got to be loved
by my mom. We got to see her courage and her faith. We are who we are (twisted
sense of humor and all) because of her courage and faith. And while we move
forward without her physical presence, we know she’s still here. And we’re here
for each other – in the middle of the sadness, grief and joy. For the start of
middle school, and driver’s licenses and college. As Jo would say, God is good,
all the time. I am blessed.
